


The Mess of it All

by reecethewriter



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Complete, Drinking, Drunk Dean, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 01:07:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10776276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reecethewriter/pseuds/reecethewriter
Summary: Dean is drunk, and Castiel's around to help. Just like he always is.





	The Mess of it All

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys this is my first fanfic I've ever really done, I hope you enjoy it! Any criticism would be helpful, just be nice :)

Maybe I could do it, I thought, rolling onto my side, turning to face him. His back was to me, and he was on the motel bed adjacent to mine. He was curled under the covers, blankets and pillows askew on the bed. I could faintly see his hair ruffled in the dim light. I could do it. I could get up, and crawl into bed with him. I could make up some excuse, I can think of a reason.

I shake the thought off almost immediately after having it, I'm buzzed. I'm buzzed and I can't get into bed with him, because it isn't fair. To either of us. Because there's no doubt in my mind he would let me.

The problem would come in the morning. Under the harsh light of day, I would regret it. I would blame it on the booze, or come up with some other lame ass excuse I usually give to one night stands, and Castiel deserves more than that.

Castiel deserves everything.

I watch his back slowly, rhythmically, rising and falling. Sam is in the room adjacent to us, as per his request. Initially Sam tried to convince me to get one bed for Castiel and me, I think he's trying to get us together. I shot him a deadly look, and he hasn't brought it up since.

I get up to go to the bathroom, and splash some cold water on my face. When I raise my head, Castiel is there.

"Jesus Cas," I say, sighing, exasperated. "You can't do that."

His hair is ruffled from sleep, and he's dressed in my pajamas.

I really like him in my clothes.

"I got up for water, and you were gone," he says quietly. His voice is deep and raspy, and fuck I love the sound of it.

"I'm kind of drunk," I burst out, because it's the only thing I can think of to say that doesn't include how nice his voice sounds.

"Alright, come on," he murmured, easing one of his arms around my waist and leads me out of the bathroom, flicking off the light. The sudden darkness makes me stumble, and the arm around me tightens. I lean into the touch instinctively, my willpower faltering.

"Okay let's get you in some pajamas and then into bed, you're still in your boots," he says softly. He's using a voice I don't recognize, it's comforting and patient, and it sounds familiar, like he's used to using it.

He probably is used to using it, I realize. It's not unlike me to get shitfaced drunk and not remember a damn thing the next morning. I realize how many times he's probably done this, how many times he’s had to help me get to bed, and a surge of guilt and appreciation passes through me.

"Dean, you have to work with me here," I hear faintly, and focus on the scene in front of me. He has taken off my jacket and is working on the flannel buttons, and my mind whirls at how close he is, smelling like cinnamon and the woods and something warm.

He thinks I'm drunker than I am, I realize. With the nearly falling and trouble talking. I snap out of it, and put my hands on his, stopping him from moving on to the next button.

"Cas," I whisper, voice hoarse. He doesn't look up, eyes fixed on the half undone button, on my hands covering his. "Cas," I repeat, and he looks up this time. Looking at him, at the tired man in front of me, one who has been to hell and back for me, one who never mentions the great he has done, one who has never asked for thanks. Looking at him hurts. "How many times have you done this?"

He looks down, like he's ashamed. "Dean it's not that big of a deal. You won't remember in the morning anyway."

I lift his chin up gently, forcing his eyes to meet mine. "Maybe you're right. Tell me anyway."

He sighs, and resumes undoing the buttons on my shirt. "About once or twice," he says, but he's lying and I know it. He's always been a shitty liar.

"Castiel," I warn. His full name sounds foreign on my tongue, I haven't used it in ages.

"A week," he finishes softly. "I do this once or twice a week."

I stand there in shock, and he undoes the last button. He slips the shirt off of me, and replaces it with a worn old band tee of mine. I want to say something, but I don't trust myself to speak. Because all I can think is the fact that it finally happened.

Finally my worst nightmare has come true, finally I have become a mirror image of my father. I have become the man who drinks away his life, who gets blackout drunk and let's others clean up his mess. The man who I've always hated.

I'm sitting on the edge of his bed and he's undoing the laces of my shoes, and I realize I hate myself too.

"I need to go," I say, standing up. Cas stands and puts his hands on my shoulders firmly, as if to ease me back onto the bed, but I don't budge.

"Don't be ridiculous Dean," he says with a sigh, and he sounds tired. He sounds exhausted. I did this.

"I'm my dad, Cas," my voice breaks, and his eyes soften, like they understand. "I never wanted to be this guy. But I am, and I'll hurt Sam, and you, and everyone else. I didn't even- fuck I didn't even know you were the one who got me into bed every night. I never even thought about it."

Castiel tries to ease me back onto the bed again, and this time, I let him. He pulls off my boots, and quickly pulls off my jeans, avoiding my eyes. He looks like he's gearing up to say something. He crawls onto the bed and motions for me, and I shift back. We're sitting up, backs against the headboard, and it's quiet. He doesn't say anything for a full minute, and I don't know if I want to hear what he has to say.

"You're different when you're drunk. You're not usually this lucid, or surly. You're," he hesitates, fingers picking at a loose thread in the comforter. "You're almost happy. You're nicer to me, and you tell me things you usually wouldn't. You watch movies with me, and you're more, um," he pauses, eyes still on the thread. His cheeks are burning pink, noticeable even in the dim light. "-you're more affectionate."

My heart faults, and I rack my brain for something to say, for some excuse. Castiel continues before I gets the chance.

"And in the morning you're hard to bear with. And it's like you don't remember, I guess because you don't, but, still. And you're different with me. Not as...nice. And when you're sober, and you're not hungover, that is, that's the you that's good. That's the man whose family I became a part of, the one I went to hell and back for."

Castiel stops, like this conversation has taken a path he didn't expect, and he doesn't know what else to say. He finally looks at me but now I can't meet his eyes, I watch his hands on the thread in the dim light.

"What if I can't be that man anymore," I whisper, and I'm scared. I'm scared as hell, and I'm not used to this. I'm not good at being open, or sharing, or all that chick flick shit, but right now, I need to be. "Cas, what if he's gone? What if I'm not the man you thought I was-"

"You are. I know you are," Cas says, and I finally meet his eyes. They're so self-assured, no semblance of a doubt that the man he believes is good is in me.

"When I'm drunk," I start off shakily, and I don't know if I want to say what I'm going to. "It's easier to do, um, things. It's easier to do the things I wish I could sober, and it's easier to lie to myself."

"I don't understand," Castiel states, and his eyes are searching mine for some clue as to what I'm trying to say. I wish I knew how to spell it out for him, to say what I've been trying to for years. "What do you tell yourself? How do you lie?"

My eyes drop again, because I can't look at him and say it. I can't. "I convince myself when I'm drunk that I deserve things I don't. It's why I'm more," I use his term from earlier. "-affectionate."

"What do you convince yourself you deserve?"

The question that I dreaded he would ask is left in the air, and it takes all my willpower to meet his eyes.

"You."

He's quiet for a minute, processing.

"Dean-"

"I don't deserve you Cas. I want you, god I want you so fucking badly it hurts," I want to stop, but it's too late now. The words are out there, and the rest come tumbling out of my mouth before I can stop them. "But I have never deserved you. You have given up so much for me, and I can't take anymore. And when I'm hungover I'm aware of that, and I try to put space between us, I try to make this easier. But when I'm drunk-"

"Dean," Castiel repeats, and I meet his eyes. I can only imagine the shame he sees in mine. His hand flutters up to my face, almost a caress, and my breath hitches. But his fingers graze my temple, and suddenly, things are clear. My brain isn't fuzzy as it was.

"Cas? What-"

"I took the alcohol out of your system," Castiel says simply. "Because I need you to be sober for this. I need you to remember this Dean Winchester."

His hand slides from my temple, now holding my face, thumb brushing against my cheek. "You are not a burden Dean, nor have you ever been."

"I don't deserve you," I repeat, but I can't help but lean into the touch of his palm, eyes closing in almost contentment as he runs his fingers through my hair.

"I'm not good at reading humans," Castiel says in a rush, and I open my eyes to see his head tilted slightly to the right. "And I fear I may have misread some signals."

"What do mean?" I ask, lost. He looks nervous, actually fidgets. "Cas, just tell me what's up."

"Do you like me?" he asks, voice barely above a murmur. "Like, um, humans they, romantically-"

"What?" I ask, confused.

"I'm sorry, that was stupid, forget I asked," he says in rush. "Of course not I shouldn't have thought differ-"

I'm laughing. I'm laughing so hard there are tears in my eyes because holy fuck we are so bad at this. It takes a moment for me to notice Castiel's hurt dejected face, and I realize I sound like the biggest dick in the world.

"Cas," I say as my laughter stops, but he doesn't look up. I tilt his chin up with my fingers and we're inches apart. "I like you. Romantically."

"Oh that's um," he fidgets again. "That's good. I um," he refuses to meet my eyes and I know he has no idea how to finish the thought because this is new.

We're at the point of no return, and we both know it. We can't go back to normal after this. I don't think either of us want to.

"Dean, I do not like you romantically."

I freeze. Everything inside me turns to ice, and my hand falls from his face gently. I don't remember making it do that though.

"Oh dear I don't mean-" he cuts off, alarmed, and I don't register anything until his hands are holding my face, forcing my eyes to focus back on him. "Dean please forgive me, I am bad at this. I didn't mean-" he stops, then tries again. I don't want to hear it though. He doesn't like me that way. I should have known. "Dean Winchester, I was trying to convey that I do not just 'like you romantically.' I was trying to tell you that those words do not adequately describe my love for you. I have been alive for millennia. I have seen the highs and lows of humanity, the rise and fall of empires, things so extraordinary that I cannot even begin to describe them.

"But I would give up everything, everything, I have experienced, for you. Dean Winchester I do not 'like you romantically.' I love you with every fiber of my being, and I don't know how to make you understand that."

He's done. He watches me while I process. Gauges my reaction. He loves me. Me.

"I-" I love you. I love you. I have loved you for years. "Cas, I-" I don't know how to say it. My hands are pushing him back onto the bed, and I'm hovering over him. I don't know how to say it.

He gently pulls me down to him, and our lips are millimeters apart. "I know Dean," he whispers and I let go of a breath I didn't know I was holding. "It's okay. I know."

Everything inside me lets go. I'm kissing him, and his lips are soft and he's so, so, warm and every wall I have ever built crumbles. I love him. I love him.

I don't want to pull away, but unlike him I need to breathe, so I do. I pepper kisses along his jaw (god that scruff) and he tilts his head as I press kisses along neck.

"I love you," I whisper into his neck, so softly I don't know if he can hear me. He must hear it though, because his head turns in a fraction of a second to look at me, shock apparent on his face.

It's easier the second time, even though he's looking at me now. "I love you, Cas." It's still a whisper, but it's louder and clearer, and I'm fighting the urge to bury my head into his chest and pretend I never said anything at all. He face lights up and he grins and I think this is the first time I've seen him smile like this.

“Say it again,” he whispers softly. I lift my head up so I have a clear view of his face. “Please,” he adds gently.

“Cas.” My voice is rough and filled with emotion. “I love you. I love you Castiel, I, Dean Winchester, love you, I-”

He’s kissing me. He has flips me over, so he is on top of me, and he’s kissing me. His legs are straddling my waist and his lips move to my neck. Everything feels urgent, like there’s only so much time left. I say his name softly, and his lips leave my skin, his face returning to mine.

“I’m not going anywhere.” My voice is soft, and one of my hands comes up to meet his face, thumb trailing across his cheek. “You can slow down. I’m here, and I love you, and I’m not going anywhere.”

“Dean,” his voice is thick with emotion. “I don’t know how to-” He stops, takes a deep breath, and starts again. “I’m scared.”

I push him up off of me, and settle him beside me. His arms wrap around me, head burrows into my chest, and I’ve never seen him this vulnerable before. I thread my fingers through his hair as he gears up to speak. He needs time. He’s never done this before. We’ve never done this before.

“I’m scared I’ll wake up and you’ll change your mind,” he murmurs into my chest. “I’m scared you’ll regret this. I’m scared this was all some kind of sick joke, I’m scared I’m going to lose you, Dean Winchester, I am terrified and I don’t know what to do.”

The fact that he thinks I’d lie to him makes me feel sick. The fact that I’ve lied to him so much before makes me sick.

“Do you know what I’m going to do tomorrow morning?” I ask. He shakes his head gently, without lifting it from its spot. “Tomorrow morning, Castiel, I am going to wake up. I am going to wake up, with you, in this very bed, and I’m going to wonder how the hell I got so lucky. And we’ll make coffee, and pancakes, and eggs; or maybe we’ll just go out for breakfast. But we’re going to be together. And I’m still going to love you, just like I have for years, and I’ll tell you what, I’m not going to regret a damn thing.”

His arms wrap around me tighter, and he lifts his head so his chin rests on my chest. I have a perfect view of his shockingly blue eyes, and of the raven hair I’ve longed to run my fingers through for so long. His eyes are fixed upon me, filled with an emotion I don’t recognize.

“You’re really not going to run?” His voice is dubious but his eyes are hopeful. I smile and shake my head.

“I promise I’m not going to run,” I assure him and he relaxes. It feels like letting out a long held breath, and I could stop here, but I won’t. “Castiel, can I tell you something?”

“Anything,” he says it with such vigor, and I know I shouldn’t say it, but I will.

“I,” I pause, trying to figure out how to say it without scaring him off. “I’m in this for real.”

“I am as well,” he agrees, but he doesn’t understand and I don’t know how to make him understand.

“No, I just-” I’m not doing this right. “I want something real. Like I want the whole thing. I want it all, with you.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” he says, and he says it with the cute god damn head tilt, and I don’t know how to spell it out for him without coming off as crazy.

“I want a house, or hell, even the bunker would be okay, but I want you there. All the time. And I want Sam there, and I want to cook stuff, and I want to watch movies with you Cas, and I think I want-” I can’t say it. I can’t fucking say it to him I shouldn’t spring this on him he needs time and I can’t fucking do it.

Too long passes. He’s patient at first, he doesn’t press, but I know it’s been too long.

“Dean,” Cas says it gently, and I can feel his arm reaching to meet my cheek. His thumb smooths down my eyebrows, softens the creases in my forehead. I don’t know how to tell him. I don’t know if I even deserve it. I shouldn’t ask. His thumb reaches my jaw. “Dean, what is it?”

“I think,” I shouldn’t say it. I don’t deserve it. “Cas, I think I want kids.”

My eyes are closed because I don’t want to see his reaction. I don’t want to see the disgust or regret or panic. I broke our bubble. I fucking broke it. It’s quiet for a minute, or three, or an hour, I don’t fucking know but it feels like forever because I am panicking. I kissed a guy, and within an hour I told him I want kids. With him. I’m such a goddamn idiot.

“I like the name Marciella,” he says finally. I open my eyes and stare at him, bewildered. “If we adopt a girl. I like the name Marciella.”

I don’t know what to say, because I’m having trouble processing, but he just continues.

“Of course, adoption is a lengthy process, and we probably need to get married if we’re gonna have a shot at getting a child, but I think the name is pretty important, and if we get a baby girl I want to name her Marciella,” he says it so casually I can’t even begin to fathom it. I don’t know how.

“You’re… You’re not freaking out? You’re on board with this? You’re not going to run for the hills screaming?” I ask incredulously.

“Dean Winchester, I have fought horrendous battles you could only dream of. I am offended you think I would be scared off by something as beautiful and heart-warming as a child,” Cas says with a small laugh. His laugh feels like bubble in carbonated soda, or balloons you got as a child. It’s light and it fills me with something good, something light and warm.

“You said we could get married,” I echo, repeating what he said before. “Before we tried to adopt. We could, we could get married.”

“Yes,” he confirms. “Does that freak you out?”

I think about it. Spending the rest of my life with Cas. I see it all in flickers, our life together. “No,” I say with a smile. “That doesn’t freak me out at all really.”

"Good.”


End file.
